


A Pinch of Spice

by ShyOwl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, John can cook, John is still a saint, M/M, Sexual Tension, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock is hungry, cuteness, domestic life, mentions of past child-abuse, tomato failure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyOwl/pseuds/ShyOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite his penchant for chemistry and ability to do anything perfectly, Sherlock cannot cook. Clumsy, average John however can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pinch of Spice

The chime into the afternoon of January 8th started very unusually.

Sherlock was __starving.

It had been nearly three months since he felt an actual sense of hunger, and longer still for him to desire something heavy and delicious. 

Oh, he’s eaten of course. John and Mrs. Hudson made sure of that. And there have been times he’s picked up something on his own to nibble on. Sherlock was no idiot; though eating was boring he understood his transport, unfortunately, needed it.

But this? This was a human hunger. This was a desperate craving for something more than toast or half of a day-old-sandwich. This was a need for something with meat, melted cheese, and that bubbled and steamed out of the oven.

Sherlock wanted some lasagna.

He scowled as he tossed paprika over his shoulder. He sincerely doubted that spice was needed. But the confinements of the pantry before him would not just simply show him the required ingredients for this desperate need.

Of course the world was against him, the world never appreciated true wonderful beings of creation. It catered to the ignorant and the slow-moving fools. So of course Angelo’s would be closed for the week.

It wasn’t __his fault that Angelo was opened over the holidays and used the less-busy second week of January as time to go visit family. It wasn’t his fault he hadn’t wanted the spinach lasagna John ordered on New Year’s but now did. It wasn’t his fault there were no good Italian places no more than two miles away. It wasn’t his fault that if he didn’t get lasagna he would be more than willing to add more bullets to the wall and perhaps toss John’s laptop out the window into the snow.

The fault belonged to the world.

And Mycroft, just because he was to blame for everything.

‘Oregano…’ He pouted, was this needed? The spice sounded familiar. But…no wait, it was from that case last summer that dealt with the corpse that had been found stuffed into an oven at a pizza-parlor. Interesting turned boring; he had it resolved in four hours.

He crossed his legs awkwardly over the counter, not falling off easily (something he knew John envied) and stared at the spice. If it was used for pizza than it should be used for lasagna right?

Sherlock typed Lasagna Recipe within his head and waited for his perfect mind to bring up something awe-inspiring. He dove deeper and deeper, figuring the knowledge was just deep in the recesses, because, really, why would someone like him need to know how to cook?

But his mind-palace was empty. There was no section in how to cook except to boil tea, make toast, and scramble a decent egg (frying wasn’t something he was all too spectacular at).

“No matter.” He scoffed as he threw the spice away. If it broke John could clean it up later. He hoped off the countertop and decided to just give it a go. He had a great ability in making things up as he goes. He was a man who typically excelled at everything he did.

Creating a dish without a recipe would be easy.

\--

Creating a dish without a recipe was not easy.

Sherlock panted as he glared at the kitchen and the what-would-be (but certainly is not) his lasagna.

“Hmph!” Sherlock huffed and spun around and turned his back to the food. It didn’t deserve his attention. He decided it would be better to just stew in his misery till John arrived and ordered something for them.

Cooking was a waste of time.

Cooking was for people who had time to waste, who didn’t have massive intellect, and who didn’t have boyfriends that did everything for them.

The poor idiots.

He should pity them, not get upset. And he wasn’t. Simple as that.

This still didn’t stop Sherlock from sulking on the couch like a toddler discovering his play-dough-oven didn’t actually produce edible food.

At near three, John came in with a smile. Even without looking at him, Sherlock could read all the signs that it was a good shift. Too bad that good mood was about to take a nose-dive.

“Someone is grumpy.” John noted as he took off his coat, starting his normal routine after work. “Want me to make you some tea and you can tell me all about it?”

Sherlock pouted. He was not some sort of child that needed to be consoled!

“I’ll take that as a yes.” John chuckled as he walked towards the kitchen and then stopped. “Sherlock!”

“Wha-a-at?” Sherlock whined, not wanting to be yelled out. It was tedious and gave him a headache. 

John gaped miserably at the state of the kitchen.

“W-What have you done?” He sputtered, gaping at Sherlock who was still (as in has not moved a muscle to even look fake-guilty) sulking on the couch. He could see that dark curly top had splotches of red gunk, the same red gunk that was all over the kitchen.

“Boring!”

“Not an answer to my question.” John twitched. “I’ve told you, you can’t use that for a reason to everything I ask. Now, what the hell happened to my kitchen?”

“I believe it is my kitchen as well John. So I see no reason why I should answer what I did to what’s mine.”

“Again, another excuse I’ve said you can’t use.” He rubbed his head, remembering that excuse being used more than necessary on him. ‘You’re mine John, so I can experiment on you’ or ‘you’re my boyfriend now, so I can take away your sleep for something more than a case anytime I want’ and so on. John put that to rest instantly (or he tried). “Now what did you do? You promised me as part of my Christmas gift you will go half of January without doing any experiment!”

Sherlock sulked more and curled up even tighter in his ball of misery.

“Sherlock,” John sighed, giving the man his no-nonsense tone.

“It was not an experiment.” Sherlock sniffed. “I was cooking.”

Now John blinked and looked back at the slaughterhouse behind him. “Cooking? What were you trying to cook?”

“Hmph.”

“Sherlock, for the love of God. This can go so much faster if you would answer the question.” John twitched, about to pick up something heavy and bash the handsome man into jelly.

“Lasagna.” The genius finally admitted. “I just simply miscalculated. That is all.”

“It looks a little more than that.” John groaned, rubbing his hand over his face. “What did you do?”

“I already told you!” Sherlock huffed, a tantrum brewing.

“No…well, no, I mean the steps. What recipe did you use? I mean, it looks like a bomb went off.” The blond scratched the back of his head. Because really, how did cooking Italian lead to this?

“Hmph! I just did what I thought felt right. I’m the smartest person around, I can figure something as easy as cooking out.”

John’s lips twitched. Oh did he ever enjoy it when that massive pride was bruised. The moments were always delicious. “You can’t figure it out at all, can you?”

“I can.”

“Sherlock Holmes…can’t figure something out.” John grinned, taking a moment to absorb this. It was really quite beautiful. It was hard to be with someone who was perfect at everything. Seeing him blunder with something outside of social-connections gave John hope that he wasn’t some genetically created government experiment.

“I can!”

John shook his head with a smile. “Come here.”

“No.” Sherlock grumped.

“Sherlock, come here. I’ll show you how to do this.”

Now the man looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“Cooking. I’ll show you how to make your lasagna so you can have it tonight and know how to make it next time.”

Sherlock eyed John suspiciously. “You’re mad.”

“I’m very mad at the state of this kitchen, which apparently I will have to help clean despite not doing anything wrong to it.” John gave Sherlock a mighty look at that. “However, you rarely eat. The fact that you want lasagna and that you were willing to make it yourself, actually does qualm my anger a little.”

If Sherlock had a tail it would be wagging.

“But I’m still pissed and you are going to clean this kitchen. Now.”

And now that figurative tail is in between his legs as he slowly got up and moped his way over.

It took roughly an hour and a half till the kitchen was cleaned.

John checked the time and saw it was nearing five and nodded to himself. “Ok, now it takes a while to get something like lasagna made. We’re looking at near 8 to eat.”

Sherlock gave a major sulk.

John grinned, “sorry, love, but it does take time. But we’ll get started and I’ll feed you some snacks.” He patted Sherlock’s flat belly with a flirty smile.

“I am not a child, John.” Sherlock growled.

“Of course you’re not. Here, have some biscuits.” John smiled and handed a ziplock bag of chocolate covered biscuits. “Marie-Anne made them for you.” Marie-Anne was one of the older nurses at the hospital whom adored John and actually tolerated Sherlock and would make the best chocolate coated biscuits around, even better than Mrs. Hudson’s (much to her dismay—she still made the best everything else though). 

And Sherlock adored them.

But because she, and John, knew Sherlock adored them they weren’t made but every so often.

Instantly, Sherlock’s eyes brighten and he took the bag, starting to munch on the sweets.

‘Not a child my arse.’ John grinned to himself as he cleared his throat, falling into professor mode. “Alrighty, first thing is wash hands. With you, I would say dip yours in burning alcohol, but we’ll make due.”

“Really, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to look dominating and sophisticated, but failed with his cheeks full of chocolate goodies and crumbs on his lips. “I keep my hands washed thoroughly. More so than you or your doctor brethren.” He sneered and stuffed another biscuit in his mouth—poor guy was starving if he was eating like this. “I can’t risk contaminating any of my experiments.”

John grunted as he looked around for ingredients before he washed his own. “Yeah, well, sadly that does sound true to you. Not against contaminating a person but God forbid you cross-contaminate an experiment with another.” He placed everything upon the counter and went to the sink.

“I don’t do it with you.” Sherlock tried, hoping he still got his lasagna.

“Either that is a lie…or something you recently started doing since we’re together.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away.

“Thought so.” John smirked. “Ok, so lasagna isn’t complicated. There is just a lot of steps so it takes a while.”

“Hmph.”

“I don’t mean that as insulting. But outside of cases and experiments, you don’t have the best patience.” John noted as he pulled out a pot to start the marinara sauce. “You really should see cooking more as chemistry. The recipe should be easy to follow.”

“I didn’t have a recipe.” Sherlock grunted, poking a tomato.

“I know you might not have one in your mind palace but what about Google?” John tilted a brow. “You know, the search engine, on my laptop, the thing you use without my permission on a daily basis to embarrass me and or use my name to get in contact with a serial killer?”

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times.

“You forgot to use a computer, didn’t you?”

“I…" Sherlock looked slightly panicked. It was clear that was something he had forgotten about in the process of epic destruction. "We are not here to talk about what I did wrong. We're here to make sure I do it correct next time. Please get to the point, John. Really."

“Oh but of course your highness. Forgive me for pointing out such a blunder. Won't happen again." John sniggered as he added all the necessary items to the pot. “Go on and chop those tomatoes for me, please.”

Sherlock scowled and nodded, “fine.”

“Thank you.” John smiled pleasantly, trying his best to teach his man-child some manners. Things were silent for a bit in their kitchen; John putting together the basics for his special sauce and Sherlock cutting up the tomatoes. It felt very domestic and comforting. 

“It’s starting to boil a little so whenever you’re ready…oh…” John blinked at the mess underneath his boyfriend’s fingers. “Dear Lord Sherlock, those are…ahem…beautiful?” John smiled at the sight of the slaughtered fruits.

“Shut up.”

John grinned, “they’re gonna be perfect Sherlock. Put them in the pot so they can boil and soften.” 

Sherlock huffed some more but went on and did as told. He leaned over the pot and took a whiff and smiled to himself. It certainly smelled like it was on the right path. Those biscuits will be nothing in comparison to the meal he would, hopefully, have soon.

“Here,” John held up a spoon. “It might not be warm enough, but you should get a slight idea of the taste.” He dipped it and held his hand up to feed his boyfriend (yes, John was stupidly romantic, leave him alone). “Tell me what it needs.”

Doing as told Sherlock slurped up the bite and then groaned happily.

John beamed when he saw the blissful look on Sherlock’s face. “It good?”

“Delicious,” Sherlock purred.

“Oh, no, no.” John laughed, feeling a little embarrassed as Sherlock pressed him against the counter. “We are not doing this, now.”

“Why not?” Sherlock moaned, kissing at John’s neck.

“Because the food will burn and then you will be grouchy because you didn’t get your craving.” John grinned and then laughed again when Sherlock bit him. “You’re not going to seduce me to get your way. We’re going to get you fed first.”

Sherlock looked all pouty. “Don’t blame me if I’m not in the mood later.”

“Despite your claims on me, I don’t need sex constantly to function. If it means you’re going to be fed and healthy, then I can manage till the next time you want anything.” John grinned. “Despite the fact we don’t go very long without intimacy.”

“We go long enough.”

“We might go a day or two.” John laughed as he moved the man away. “Come on, let me go so I can get you some food.”

“John, really, I am thirty-seven. I have taken down an entire crime network. Faced multiple psychopaths and assassins. I solve murders for a living and have survived living with Mycroft. Yet you still have this idiotic need to treat me like a child.” Sherlock noted, his voice cold and impatient.

John lifted a brow. “Oh? You don’t like it then?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, a bit taken aback by the question. “I…uhm…”

“You want me to stop taking care of you?”

The taller male scowled as he carefully considered this. “No...no I-I suppose not.”

“Thought so.” John grinned. “Just enjoy being spoiled in our home. I won’t do things to embarrass you as long as you don’t deserve it.” He waved off Sherlock’s epic pout (he was in such a pouty mood this evening) and went back to work. He would have a worse man to deal with if he didn’t consume food.

“Now, time for the pasta.” John smiled, looking proud. “I can make homemade pasta. I have a great recipe for it.”

“Stop bragging about it and do it.”

“Grouchy hypocrite.” John smirked and held up his pre-cooked pasta. “I think for tonight we’ll do this though. It takes time to make good pasta.”

“Then get on with it.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, using any form of willpower he might have left to not shake the man into either getting on with the cooking or having sex with him. Sherlock wanted food or intimacy, not conversation.

“Such a baby.” And just to piss him off more, John gave another pat to Sherlock’s stomach. He ignored the powerful glare and turned on the pot of water to boil, so tempted to go agonizingly slow to have the egomaniac suffer.

“You are acting like a insolent child, John. It is most unbecoming.” Sherlock sniffed.

John’s lips twitched. He wasn’t even going to acknowledge the stupidity of that statement. Instead he concentrated on the meal at hand. The sooner he had this all together, the sooner Mr. Grumpy Pants would be full and somewhat…less than grumpy.

“There, sauce is done, just gotta simmer. The pasta will be done shortly. Now,” John grinned as he brought out the cheeses. “Time to get all of this greatness put together.”

Sherlock groaned. Why all the unnecessary talk? Why? It wasn’t needed for the cooking process. In fact, it seemed to deter the process from going as quickly as possible.

John brought out the mozzarella, Parmesan, and feta cheese and began to gentle peel clumps of the white cheese and rolling them into balls. “A bit unorthodox, but I’ve always rolled the mozzarella like this. Habit that I haven’t stopped.”

The taller man watched John’s hands, absorbing all his movements. He found those hands (small but covered in callouses and scars) so hypnotic. It was difficult to concentrate on the recipe when those hands were moving like they were. Slowly rolling the white balls around, glistening from the moisture.

“I’m sure you can read it,” John stated with a smile. “But I use to cook a lot when I was younger.”

“Mhm,” Sherlock confirmed, eyes still glued on those cute fingers. He was so tempted to lift them up and put one of them in his mouth. But he held back and continued to watch the show. The fun stuff could (and would) come later.

“You know about my family,” John continued a small hum in his voice.

Sherlock didn’t confirm this time. Family was not a topic he enjoyed hearing about in concerns with John. Not after he realized that John was raised in a poor, abusive household.

“Had to learn how to cook for myself and Harry, who could make a bigger mess than you.” John teased. “Found a lot of old recipes of my grandmother who--”

“Died years before your birth. Mother’s side. She was close to her daughter. Your mother never recovered once she passed on and a reason why she stuck with your father despite his actions towards herself and her children.” He sneered.

John shrugged. It was his past and he was happy now, so talking about these things no longer bothered him like they used to. “Once it was discovered I could cook I became the head-chef of the family.”

Sherlock continued to scowl. He hated this talk. He just wanted to learn how to cook and watch John teach him. He didn’t want a reminder that sweet, selfless John had suffered.

“Alright, cheese is ready. Pasta is,” he paused to check the noodles in the boiling water. “Ah! Hot, hot, yes very ready. Damn, I always do that.” John winced as he sucked on his burn spot.

“Idiot.” Sherlock sighed as he took John’s hand away from the blonde’s mouth and put it within his own. At least he got some relieve for one of his pains. It felt so good to have the finger and the skin on his tongue.

“S-Sherlock,” John cleared his throat. “I, uhm, I need that to finish cooking.”

The Detective gave a heavy sigh and released the finger with a pop. The sigh turned to a smirk when he saw the blonde shudder.

“Fine then, continue on.”

John huffed and pulled his hand back grumpily. “Of course lasagna is a layered food. So, we’ll get a pan and start putting everything on top of each other.” 

“Unless, you are hinting that you want me on top of you this second, you best stop with this lecture.”

“I’m trying to teach you, Sherlock. Not seduce or annoy you.” John rolled his eyes, working on the meal. Let’s see Sherlock get anything from the man who talks excessively. Doesn't want to connect romantically? Fine. The hungry brat could sleep on the couch for all he cared.

“There!” John beamed in pride at the look of composed meal. It looked beautiful if he said so himself and would look even better once it cooked. The oven was red and burning, it felt so good on John’s face as he placed the lasagna inside. He just might need to cook more often when the outside world was so cold.

“It’s in the oven…I want to go to bed.” Sherlock tugged John impatiently towards the bedroom.

“This is ridiculous,” John grinned, allowing himself to be pulled away. His promise to himself to be stubborn certainly didn’t last long. “I just made dinner. You shouldn’t be this turned on.”

“Too bad, I am.”

John laughed as he was dragged and practically thrown onto the bed. “I’m really going to have to remember this in the future when you’re oblivious to anything besides a murder. Better than lounging on the bed arse bare.”

Sherlock pounced on top of him, biting hard at his left bicep. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that either. Just don’t have a rose between your teeth.”

John giggled, “not everyone follows the advice of cheesy romance movies. I’m not that much of an idiot.” He grinned and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and brought him down for a kiss.

The night was turning out better than it had started.

A cooked meal and a nice shag.

Sherlock was very, very pleased with the things he gets in life.

\--

John was on the verge of sleep, snuggled up next to his boyfriend. 

When Sherlock got into a randy mood, John was typically left sore, weak, and very sated. A chilled rain had started outside, hitting the window, and lulling John into a very comfortable state.

He simply did not want to ever move from this bed.

“John.” Sherlock skipped the romantic act of brushing John’s hair. He went straight to aggravatingly poking his face. “John.”

“What?” The blonde groaned.

“I’m hungry.”

John groaned again, now just wanting to kick the idiot out of bed and have him go make himself a damn turkey sandwich. He was too comfortable to be bothered. And it wasn’t like he would be able to properly walk for a while anyway.

“John. I want the lasagna.” Sherlock huffed.

“The lasagna?” John looked up at him, blinking before he paled.

“SHIT.” John shot up and promptly fell out of bed face first. His legs were tied up in the sheets.

Sherlock’s head peeked over the edge of the bed, staring judgmentally at his fallen lover. “What are you doing John? The food will burn if you don’t stop fooling about.”

“I swear,” John started, trying to get out of this ridiculous spiderweb of blankets. “You could very well go and get it out yourself. Or help me up.”

“Hmmm, no.” Sherlock tapped his chin, smirking down at the fallen soldier. “I rather like you tied up and trapped.”

John blushed, “No. No. NO. We’re not doing that again, not now. The food will burn!”

“Maybe I’ll let it burn and have you cook it again. You were attractive when you cooked. Like the perfect wife. I should probably put you in an apron and nothing else.”

“Sherlock.” John twitched. “Let. Me. Up.”

“No.” He lounged back, his lean body looking very tempting upon the bed. Or it would if John wasn’t about to kill him. “You can get out of it. Besides, the longer you’re there the better chance I have in seeing you cook in the buff.”

“You and your turn-ons.” John hissed as he worked at getting the sheets off. “See if I ever cook for you again.” Finally, he was freed and he rushed to the kitchen, ignoring Sherlock’s hungry grin.

John pulled out the giant platter and sighed in relief. It was perfect. 

At least he wouldn’t have to deal with the kitchen stinking of smoke and an annoying, hungry Sherlock.

“You better bring me a robe, Sherlock!” John grumped, feeling ridiculous in the kitchen without a stitch of clothing on except for an oven mitt.

“Fine, fine. If only to keep you quiet as I eat.” Sherlock drawled as he came in with his pajama pants and John’s robe dragging on the ground.

John took the item quickly and wrapped it around himself. He was a very modest man, thank you very much. He didn’t appreciate being naked in most any location.

Sherlock hovered over the food, nearly drooling.

John couldn’t help but feel a bit proud. Look at that expression. And Sherlock was showing it to him and because of him. It really made everything about John glow, taking a moment to feel a little special. “Give it a few moments.”

“I understand the concept of heat, thank you.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I feel like I have every right to warn you after you made the kitchen explode.”

“I didn’t make the kitchen explode, really now. The sauce exploded over the kitchen.”

“As if that’s better.” John grunted as he pulled out the plates and got their drinks, since he apparently had to do everything.

Outside the rain continued to fall. John couldn’t wait to crawl back in bed with a belly full of warm food. It would be a very relaxing night.

“Ok, since I can see you are holding yourself back let’s just get to eating.”

“Thought it would never come.” Sherlock whined a bit, greedily getting the utensils prepared for a frantic stuffing of food.

“Such a kid.” John muttered to himself and placed the first piece before the detective.

It was consumed within three minutes with a demand for another.

John expected for the man to stop at any second. But Sherlock ate nearly half of the lasagna on his own.

John was thoroughly impressed. He had thought that the man’s stomach would be the size of a walnut considering how little he ate. But Sherlock basically licked his plate clean and then shuffled around to find more of those biscuits.

“Well, I guess you liked it well enough.” John noted as he gathered the plates.

“It was pleasant. Not like Angelo’s…but good.” Sherlock confessed as he ate a few more sweets.

“Mhm,” John gathered the dishes, putting them in the sink to soak. Though Sherlock’s plate could probably be placed up; it was spotless. “Glad it was decent enough for you.”

“I didn’t mean it was terrible.” Sherlock tried, growing a bit panicked.

John just laughed. It really touched him when Sherlock fretted over his feelings. “I know. I’m being honest. I know I’m glad that it was enough for you. I’m not a professional like Angelo. Now,” he shooed Sherlock off. “Go to bed. That should keep you sustained for the night and actually help you sleep. I’ll get the dishes done and come in later.”

“I…ahem,” Sherlock cleared his throat and dropped the ziplock bag on the table. “I can do the dishes. Tomorrow. Since you cooked.”

John stared.

“What?”

“Don’t give me that look. You heard me.” Sherlock blushed slightly. “I find it would be a bit unfair if you do everything.”

“Uh-huh.” John tilted a brow. “But that just seems to be how we live.”

“I’m not that unfair.” The detective huffed.

“Uh-huh.” John continued to stare, but was fighting a smile. “Well, I certainly won’t fight you on it.”

“You shouldn’t.” Sherlock picked himself up and grabbed John. “I also know you are naked under that robe and want to take advantage of that.”

“A-Again?!”

Sherlock gave him a devilish smirk as he tugged the man along. “Guess your cooking really does something to me. Now, less chatting and more moaning if you please.”

A hormonal Sherlock willing to do chores without complaint?

Oh yes, John was to be cooking far more in 221B.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little bit of fluff for the day!
> 
> And I seriously cannot get the functions of italics on this site.


End file.
